


Affaire de Cœur

by elementalram



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: F/M, I promise, Mystery, Porn With Plot, Suspense, There will be Porn, Thriller, and porn, porn with lots of plot, this is like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalram/pseuds/elementalram
Summary: Soon after the events of the Unwound Future, Professor Hershel Layton is invited to a party at the Hawks' Manor.  With Emmy newly returned to London and back in his life, things seem to be looking up.  Old feelings reignite.  However, when a dead body turns up during the celebration, they find themselves diving headfirst into yet another mystery that can only be solved if these two gumshoes can keep their wits about them... and their pants on.
Relationships: Emmy Altava/Hershel Layton
Comments: 17
Kudos: 10





	1. The Party

The light from the outdoor chandelier glimmered delicately over the fountain’s churning water, casting a playful reflection over the walls of the elegant manor and the guests who milled about just outside it. With his still-full cup of wine in hand, The Professor watched the light dance over the faces of the people like grand nebulae forming in the cosmos. And in the center of this lustrous universe stood one woman. One remarkable, extraordinary woman.

Dressed in suspenders, black slacks, and her favorite pink bowtie, she seemed to glow as she focused her camera to snap a picture of the couple posing in elegant formalwear before her. Once finished, she pulled her short, fluffy hair into a ponytail, straightened her bowtie, and turned around to tend to another couple wishing for a portrait of themselves.

The Professor smiled, surprised by the joy he felt at that moment. It had been a tumultuous few weeks since Emmy Altava had come back into his life. With Luke and his family now in the States, his world had lost some of its color. But with Emmy back, life had brightened once more.

“Don’t you agree, Mr. Layton?”

He blinked, suddenly startled out of his reverie. The stars disappeared, and the chatter of the party filled his ears once more. He was standing along the edge of a small circle comprising of what some would call London’s finest and most influential people. Bill Hawks, the mayor of London and the person to whom the mansion they were all standing in belonged, was staring at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Barcelona. Don’t you just love it?”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard it’s beautiful, but I’ve never been,” he responded mechanically. He glanced back at Emmy, but she was gone.

There was a scattered cry of amazement and pity. Hawks, dressed to the nines in a fitted blazer and pinstripe pants, smirked as he adjusted his glasses. “You’ve never been to Barcelona? You poor thing, you.”

“I bet old Billy here'd go there every year if that wife of his could stop spending so much money,” another chimed in. The Professor recognized his face from some movie or other. Vincent Middleton, maybe? The man smoothed his hair back and smiled. “Too bad. They know how to treat a chap _very_ well out there, if you catch my drift.” He winked as Mr Hawks pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. The action did nothing to hide his grimace.

“I wish I could experience it again for the first time,” another man in a dark, navy-blue suit added. “I’ve started building my second home out there, but there’s nothing quite like being virgin to a new and wonderful place.” 

As the rest of the group continued to prattle on, the Professor glanced down at his watch. The rhythmic ticking sound assured him it was working, but the hands seemed to mock him with their lethargy. Although propriety demanded he stay at this miserable anniversary party for at least a few hours, he couldn’t help but long for the comfort and familiarity of his own little office. With his tools, his books, and maybe his old assistant, if she were willing.

Speaking of which, where had she gone? He looked around. No matter how much he longed to leave, he couldn't do so without her. No, he decided, he would stay here at this hapless affair until her shift was over, if for no other reason than to make sure she got home safe. 

Just then, he heard a small giggle close to his ear. The Professor turned to see a woman standing next to him, smiling from behind her gloved fingers. Her long, blonde hair fell around her bare shoulders in waves as she leaned in close. “You know, Mister Layton,” she whispered, “you should take your wife there.”

“I’m sorry-- my wife?”

“Yes, silly. To Barcelona.” Her coquettish gaze bore inquest under her long lashes. “Surely a man of your talent and sophistication must be taken?”

Suddenly taken off guard, the Professor stepped back. “Well, no, not at the moment, I’m afraid. Maybe one day. And then yes, I’ll take her to Barcelona.”

Her eyes lit up and she smiled. “You know, you can’t just take her anywhere. You have to know all the right places. Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more secluded so I can tell you all the best spots to visit?”

The Professor reached for the brim of his tophat and was equally unsettled by its absence as he was by her encroaching presence. Why, of all nights, had he decided to swap his favorite tophat for a bowler? His stomach sank. “I’m-- that is to say, it’s not-- You seem like a very knowledgeable young woman, but--”

She toyed with the edge of his tie with her long, delicate fingers. “Knowledgeable, hm? Give me a chance and I may even impress you with a few of my _other_ skills too, Professor.”

Just then, he spotted that familiar pink bowtie and felt his heart leap. Emmy was standing near the wrought-iron gate on the other side of the fountain, sipping a drink by the buffet and staring forlornly up at the sky. A man in similar attire to her own was standing beside her; one hand was gripping a tripod rigged with an expensive-looking camera on top, and the other hand rested discouragingly close to hers. He whispered something in her ear, then walked away toward the mansion.

Mustering his most gentlemanly of inter-personal skills, he lightly removed the woman’s hand from his tie and tipped his new bowler hat. “Please, pardon me. There’s something I must attend to.” 

She pouted. "Come find me when you change your mind. I'll be waiting." 

As the Professor turned to leave, he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. "Where are you going?" It was the man in the blue suit from earlier. "Ahh, I see. Don't worry, I can't blame you. She's quite the looker." 

Professor Layton froze. "Pardon?" 

He nodded pointedly toward Emmy. "Me and Vincent have had our eye on that girl all evening." 

The actor licked his lips. "What a tasty little thing." 

"Mmm, I've always had a thing for Oriental girls," Bill Hawkes laughed, following their gaze.

The Professor took a deep breath and steadied himself. His wine glass threatened to shatter in his hand if he wasn't careful. He stepped away and blue suit's hand fell back to his side. "Please, Mr. Hawks, with all due respect, do remember your wife on the eve of your twentieth anniversary." With a curt goodbye, he excused himself and made his way through the crowd and to the other side of the immaculately manicured garden.

“Looks like you’ve got quite the following, eh, Professor?” Emmy chuckled as he approached.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“You’re terrible at playing dumb, you know.” She smiled. Even without the fountain’s reflective light, her smile seemed to shine. “I saw the way that lady was looking at you. Did you know that she’s the heiress to the Macintyre fortune?”

“I-- no, I confess that I did not.” He glanced in her direction. She had crossed the garden in the other direction and was talking to the bartender.

“Yep, that’s Helena Cravitz-Macintyre. She and the actor were an item for a brief while. And the man in the blue suit--" she pointed toward the circle of people he had just escaped from, "--that's Nathaniel Lovelle. He used to be a celebrity lawyer, but he's been doing some investment banking and day trading these days."

"I see. A very well-to-do crowd." He made a conscious effort to hold back some choice words. "Say, how do you know all of this?" 

A sly smirk stretched across her face. "I watch the news. And, I don't live under a box." 

"Point taken." 

"And-- do you see that couple over there?” She pointed at two women standing arm-in-arm near the bar. “They’re the Wellingtons. You know-- of the Wellington Candle Co.? They were just telling me all about how you rescued London from some rich rascal.”

“I suppose it has been quite the year.”

“Now there’s an understatement, eh?” She rubbed the back of her neck and smiled weakly. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t here to help.

They looked up at the stars above the looming form of the three-storied mansion. In one window, the silhouette of a woman appeared to be curiously looking down at the little crowd of affluent socialites. Above her, and perhaps unbeknownst to her, dark clouds loomed from the east: a sure sign that it would rain before the end of the night. The Professor wondered halfheartedly whether the party would be called off early.

"So..." he began lightly, "Who is your friend?" 

"My friend?" She thought for a moment. "Oh, you mean Colin. He’s a coworker. He's supposed to be taking pictures inside." 

The Professor didn't say anything for a while. A few leaves flew by on the backs of a cool breeze. “What do you say we get out of here?” he finally asked. “I know this quaint little tea shop just north of here that I know you would enjoy.”

A mischievous grin flashed over her face but was quickly replaced with a consternate frown. “That sounds lovely, but you know I have to work tonight--”

“--And I also know you don’t want to.” He chuckled.

“Be that as it may, I’m supposed to work until midnight, and these photographs won’t take themselves.” She watched Mrs. Hawks through the mansion’s overly large bay windows. She, alongside a bunch of her peers, danced and swayed to the tune of what she could only assume was a rather fast-paced song. She glanced down at her camera but didn’t raise it. “Thanks for the offer, though, Professor.”

“Why don’t you call me Hershel? You are my friend, after all, are you not?”

“O-of course!”

Stammering? Blushing? Where was her head? This certainly was not like her. And yet, despite her stern, self-chastising inner monologue, she couldn’t help but hope that the darkness of the night would hide her reddening face. There was so much she wanted to say, she realized, so much she wanted to ask about. Where had life taken him in the past three years? Were there any new cases? How about work?

...Had he replaced her?

For one, he had taken to wearing his tophat less and less often these days, a fact which had not gone unnoticed by her but for which she did struggle to bring up. Perhaps she should just ask him now, while he was here, and get the question out of the way. She took a breath and allowed herself to feel the resolution course through her, then opened her mouth to speak.

Suddenly, a voice rang out. “Hey! Camera-lady! Take our picture?”

An older man in a tux approached with a young woman on each arm. Emmy, who had nearly roundhoused him on instinct, forced herself to take a deep breath and relax. She raised her camera and snapped a picture. And then another. And to their self-aggrandizing demand, a third. And, after much too much time had passed for her liking, the trio finally left, distracted by the announcement declaring there to be more wine being served at the tiki bar. As soon as their backs were turned, her professional smile disappeared to be replaced with a tired grimace. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m sure this was not the kind of thing you had in mind when you returned to London, hm?” the Professor asked.

“Not at all, she confessed. “These elite types-- I just can’t stand them. When I joined the _Daily Herald_ , I thought we would be exposing crime and corruption, solving mysteries and the like.” She paused, fiddling with the aperture on her camera. “...Kind of like you and I used to.”

“We sure had some good times.” He chuckled, watching the crowd. After a moment, he continued. “You know, I can’t help but wonder how much easier these past few cases would have been to crack had you been around.”

She smiled, but a clear expression of guilt flashed across her face. She looked up at the sky.

The Professor rubbed his chin. “Speaking of ‘solving mysteries,’ there is something going on here that I’ve been puzzling over all night.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows came together as she continued to glare at the stars.

“It's nothing big, but I can’t help but wonder whether there’s something going on here tonight.”

She quickly turned to look at him. “Here? Tonight? A crime?” She looked around. “Where?”

Hershel Layton nodded toward the mayor of London, Bill Hawks. “Well, to start, it’s no secret that this man here has been involved in some less-than-completely legal actions, but he has so far been cleared of all charges.”

Her whole body seemed to tense up, ready to spring into action. “But he’s guilty?”

“Well, not according to the judicial system. But he is acting very curiously tonight."

"How so?"

"It's difficult to properly point to one thing. But he does seem to be checking his watch and looking over his shoulder a lot. Plus, check out some of the people he hired to help with the party. The server, the DJ, the bartender...”

Emmy frowned. Her body relaxed. “I don’t follow. What about them?”

“Tell me, what do you notice about them? There is something similar about each one.”

Her frown deepened. She folded her arms as she studied each one. “Well, I haven’t been able to get very close to the DJ because I’m supposed to stay outside, but if I were to wager a guess, I’d say... our outfits?”

“That’s one thing.”

“Well, that’s not very strange. I can’t speak for the others, but I know the photographers were required to wear something along these lines.” She pulled on a suspender strap with her thumb. “And I imagine the others were asked to do the same thing.”

“Very true. Do you see anything else?”

Emmy squinted at a man who had just emerged from inside the house; he held a round tray with one hand and was currently offering guests bits of cheese and fruit to go with their wine. He was well built, with a chest and arms that would make any shirt beg for mercy. Similarly, the bartender was well-toned, though not to as extreme a measure as the server. Still, he looked to be the type who could crush a beer can on his head without so much as a second thought.

When she pointed this out to the Professor, he merely smiled. “And the DJ is also built along the same lines,” he added. "It may just be a coincidence, of course, but it certainly does spark the imagination."

“But that doesn’t apply to the photographers. Me and Colin are, well, not nearly as big and burly.”

“Right again. And yet, for some reason, you and Colin, both part of the _Daily Herald_ , were hired to work here tonight. There must be plenty of photography studios in the area, and yet, he chose to seek out newspaper publication staff."

“I did think it was a little strange when my manager approached me with this job, in this mansion, so secluded and far away from the city proper,” she said. “But what could it possibly mean?”

Before he could answer, they heard a loud, piercing scream from inside the mansion. The crowd fell silent. 

_"My god, he's dead!"_


	2. Inside the Hawks' Estate

_“Oh my god, he’s dead!”_

Silence fell over the crowd in the garden. For a brief time, the only movement to be seen was the fluttering of lace and silk on the dresses and suits worn by the members of the little party as the wind sailed by. Then, without further preamble, the bartender vaulted over the counter, sending the closest socialites skittering out of his way with a mixture of frightful self-preservation and haughty indignation. He bounded across the yard and to the door. 

“Everyone, stay calm!” the man commanded. “Bird! Keep everyone outside while I handle this.” 

The waiter, a giant of a man, moved to block the door. The bartender slipped inside, and as though on cue, the guests broke out into a panic. 

_“Wait-- who died?”_

_“Let me through!”_

_“Where's Lisa?”_

In all the commotion, Emmy and the Professor navigated their way to the front, but Bird, who was built less like a fledgling and more like a tank, stood fast. He folded his arms as he watched them approach. “Back away. This is for your safety,” he growled. 

“How so?” Emmy frowned as they slowed to a stop in front of him.

“The man you saw go inside is a detective: one of London’s finest. He will help this person if he can, and find his killer if he cannot. And you would only get in the way.” 

“Certainly we could be of some use." 

His frown deepened and he said no more.

Emmy turned away from the enormous man and toward the Professor. She whispered, “What are we going to do? We need to get in and see what’s going on.” 

“Let me try.” The Professor sidled up close to the man. This guy looked even bigger up close. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mister, um, _Bird_ , but my name is Hershel Layton, and this is my assis-- I mean, this is my friend, Emmy. We're--” 

“Layton?” The man crossed his arms tighter. Muscles bulged, straining his dress shirt and threatening to send its buttons rocketing away in all directions. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in what might have been the closest he could come to expressing a smile. “I’ve heard about some of the work you’ve done. You’re pretty good. But you still can’t come in.” 

“Oh well, it was worth a try,” the Professor said, turning back toward Emmy. He leaned in close to her. “We might just have to get more creative about this.”

She raised a brow and smiled in a very Emmy-like way, flashing her crooked canine. “What do you have in mind, Hershel?” 

He rubbed his chin and looked around. There was no getting past Bird, and it was difficult to see anything through the sliding glass doors around his enormous frame. And the yard itself, spacious as it was, was not much help in this situation. He thought briefly of trying to create a distraction that would send Mr. Bird off in a different direction, but something about his narrowed eyes told him that task would prove fruitless. 

Just then, his face lit up. He turned toward Bird. “Sorry to have been such a bother, Mr. Bird. Best wishes to you and your companion of Scotland Yard.”

He pulled Emmy through the dense crowd full of still-panicking people moving around this way and that. In this chaos, they could be reasonably sure that the big man could not have visually followed them with his critical gaze, but just to be certain, they backtracked along the edge of the yard and quickly shuffled behind a rather large and well cared for begonia nestled behind a whispy apple tree. 

“I still don’t know what you’ve got in mind, Hershel!” Emmy said with a laugh. 

Her hand squeezed his. He had forgotten to let go! With a start, he dropped her hand and reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket. Oh dear, what _had_ his plan been? “Ah, well, you see, I saw this open window here, and--” 

“And you thought we’d scale the building! _Brilliant!”_

The Professor listened closely for a hint of sarcasm or facetiousness, but there was none. Her snaggle-toothed grin was genuine and full of determination. He smiled. “Shall I give you a leg up?”

“Nah, you should go first. Then you can pull me up.” 

“Oh!”

The Professor bit his lip. He didn’t know how he felt about standing on a lady. Certainly, she was by no means frail; he’d watched her combat men many times her size on more than a few occasions. Still, it could not be considered gentlemanly by any stretch of the word to get up onto her back as she had proposed. And yet, Emmy had already bent down and was patting her shoulder encouragingly. With one last longing look at the frail-looking apple tree beside them, he set his foot on her shoulder, wishing he had not eaten that slice of pie earlier. She slowly stood to full height, and the Professor quickly grabbed hold of the windowsill and hoisted himself the rest of the way up. 

A bedroom. A spare one, if the Professor were to venture a guess about it. Every corner was immaculately tidy. After a quick glance about the room, he determined that it was devoid of life, as he had hoped, and he bent back over the edge of the window. Emmy grasped his hand firmly and he pulled her up with all his might. Emmy, for her part, had found a nice ledge in the brick to get a foothold on, and pushed herself up at exactly the same moment that the Professor himself had found his footing and started yanking her up. Their combined efforts sent her into the room faster than either of them had physically calibrated themselves for, and a moment later, the pair wound up recumbent upon the soft, rich carpeting. And by recumbent, I mean…

“Oh!” Emmy pushed herself up onto her hands and knees only to find the dear Professor pinned bodily beneath her. His cap had slipped off and was resting some distance away. Emmy had never seen him without his tophat, let alone any hat at all. His hair was messy and unkempt. She wondered if it was soft. 

As she lifted one hand to test her theory, her eyes suddenly caught his. His cheeks were flushed to a delicious pink, his lips were slightly parted, and his suit was invitingly disheveled. And she realized with a start that she had been sitting directly on him, staring at him immobilized beneath her for far too long to be anything but licentious. With a jolt, almost as though electrified, she hopped off him to sit beside him. 

As she struggled to maintain a connection between her brain and her mouth, her ears suddenly picked up a faint sound from outside the bedroom. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

They looked at each other. “Someone’s coming!”

Quickly they leaped to their feet. The Professor grabbed his cap as Emmy swung open the double doors to a nearby closet. Pushing the clothes aside, they squeezed themselves in and soundlessly closed the doors behind them. Through the slats in the shutters, they could see a figure come inside. A woman. She wore a knee-length dress, red. 

“Helena Cravitz-Macintyre,” Emmy whispered. 

Hershel Layton squinted and looked closer. It was indeed Helena, the woman he had spoken to earlier about Barcelona. And about his wife, or lack thereof. He took a deep breath in an effort to calm his still-quickly-beating heart, and whispered, "What is she doing so far away from the group?" 

Emmy shrugged.

Helena strolled across the carpet. She paused for a moment and regarded the dresser. With a glance over her shoulder, she approached it. On top of the elegant piece of furniture sat several small bottles of what Layton and Emmy could only guess were perfumes. She picked one up and held it close to her nose. With distaste apparent on her face, she set the bottle down and opened the top drawer to the dresser. She carefully swept around the inside of the drawer with gloved fingers. Her face lit up. She pulled something from it and promptly stuck it in her clutch. After a moment’s hesitation, she took the perfume bottle, too. 

Meanwhile, inside the cramped closet, the two amateur investigators were struggling with a predicament of an altogether different nature. With so little room among the incredible number of coats, they each found themselves pressed right up against the other. The Professor bit the inside of his cheek as he monitored Helena's journey around the room. If he could concentrate on her and her hitherto unbeknownst propensity for pilfering, he surmised, then maybe his _other_ problem would dissipate before a certain someone noticed. 

Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain, for by this time, that certain someone had already noticed his growing problem. How could she not? It was pressed directly against her backside, after all. And with each move, each slight adjustment of her body, she determined that his little problem was, in actuality, very, very big. So big, in fact, that it was causing her a growing problem of her own. A problem that no amount of wriggling could relieve. 

Before he could stop himself, the Professor involuntarily moaned. Suddenly, Helena whipped around. Her wide eyes darted from the exit to the closet and back again in quick succession. She took a few steps toward the hall, then paused, and looked back toward the closet. With determination evident on her pretty face, she walked over to the closet.

With her hand outstretched and closing in on the doorknob, she whispered, "Bill? Is that you? Are you trying to scare me?"

“Helena!” someone shouted from outside the room. “Where are you?” 

Startled, she immediately withdrew. With one final glance at the closet, Helena quickly and quietly danced over to the door and left. 

Emmy and the Professor let out a deep sigh. The latter, still blissfully naïve to the fact that his secret had been wholly discovered, reached over the former's shoulder and pushed open the door. And Emmy, now in desperate need of a moment to herself, beelined for the door to peek out into the hallway. 

There were several bottles of perfume on the dresser, the Professor discovered. He took out his handkerchief and carefully picked one of them up. He brought it to his nose. It smelled flowery and light, just as one would expect. Same with the next bottle. In fact, he found nothing so odiferous as to warrant the kind of expression Helena gave the bottle she took. Next, he opened the first drawer to the dresser, as Helena had, and peered inside. There was nothing of note in here, either; it looked to be the kind of junk drawer found in anyone’s home. Spare keys, old receipts, a Phillips head screwdriver, a local take-out menu, a few batteries…. 

Layton spotted an old photograph. It was of a chubby baby wrapped snugly in a blanket. Behind it, he found another photo. This one was of a man standing on a large yacht. Turning it over, he read the back. It said, “See you soon.” 

“What do you make of this?” Layton turned to look at Emmy, but she was nowhere to be found. “Emmy?” 

He stepped out into the hall. To his relief, his companion stood a mere dozen paces away. Relief turned to confusion, however, as he observed her. With her camera in one hand, Emmy stood at the edge of the covered balcony overlooking the open room below. He could hear Detective Bartender's commanding voice echo up from downstairs. She appeared to be watching the investigative proceeding below with a distracted look on her flushed face. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Just then, Layton realized with a shock what had her so distracted. The hand that was not holding her camera was deep inside her pocket and appeared to be moving slowly but rhythmically over a spot between her legs. 

So she _had_ noticed his little not-so-little problem back in the closet. And, as evidenced by her gyrating fingers and panting breath, she craved more. He swallowed dryly. Oh, what he wouldn't do to be able to just pick her up right now, toss her onto the bed behind him, rip her uniform clean off, and drive himself into her over and over again until she screamed his name with lecherous fulfillment. Then, he'd flip her over and do it again from a new angle; in fact, he'd worship every square inch of that wonderful body as any goddess as magnificent as she deserves. 

Simultaneously surprised by the forcefulness of his own imagination and spurred on by the strength of the vision in his mind's eye, Hershel Layton stepped out into the hallway. Emmy, suddenly aware of his approach, quickly withdrew her hand from her pocket. 

"H-Hershel!" she stammered. "I was just--" 

But whatever excuse she had concocted was now useless. Hershel had crossed the hallway and closed the distance between them. One hand slid up her arm and crossed over her back; the other gently caressed her cheek. And then their lips brushed together, lightly at first, then with the kind of desperation that they each shared unbeknownst to the other for far, far too long. Although Hershel knew he had only had a few sips of his wine tonight, he felt positively intoxicated as Emmy wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. She smiled at the touch, gratified by its softness, and inadvertently knocked the cap off his head and sent it sailing over the balcony and into the room below. 

Emmy had just begun to grind herself against Hershel's thigh when they suddenly heard a din from below.

"What the hell? Where did this hat come from?" 

Their fiery passion turned to ice in an instant. They turned to peer over the edge of the balcony only to see the bartender/detective staring directly up at them with the Professor's cap in hand. His face had twisted itself into a look of pure irritation. 

"You two! Get the _fuck_ down here right now! You have a ton of explaining to do!"

Emmy and the Professor turned to look at each other. 

Whoops.


	3. No More Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY FUCK!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!

The door slammed shut behind them. Emmy and the Professor could feel their stomachs turning as the bartender-turned-detective motioned for them to sit on the couch. Here, in the little drawing-room adjacent to the grand living area, sat Mr. and Mrs. Hawks; they each shared a panicked, frightful expression on their pale faces. And yet, despite the apparent gravity of the situation, the Professor's mind was steadfastly elsewhere. Had he really just kissed his onetime assistant? His old friend? He could still feel the heat of her body against his, the shape of her person on his hands, and the taste of her lips on his. And he craved more. 

...But, did she?

The detective turned to face them. In his fist, he held tight to the Professor’s cap which had fallen off the balcony. He shook it as he approached the sofa. “Alright, you two: how’d you do it?”

The Professor tore his eyes away from the beautiful woman beside him to look up at the brawny man standing before him. “...I beg your pardon?” 

“How did you do it? How did you murder him?” 

“…Murder who?”

The detective bared his teeth. His eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets. “Nathaniel Lovelle, you turkey!” he growled. "How did you murder Nathaniel Lovelle!?"

Emmy and the Professor stole a glance at one another, then looked back at the detective. “Oh, him," the Professor said. "I'm afraid you've got it all wrong; we had nothing to do with that." 

“Well, someone here killed him, and right now, all roads lead to you two!” He pointed emphatically at Emmy and the Professor.

Emmy raised a brow. “Uh, no they don't, obviously, because we didn't kill anyone." She frowned. "Who are you, anyway? Didn't we see you bartending earlier?"

The corner of his lip curled upward. “Detective Hennessy of Scotland Yard, at your service. I had an inkling something would happen here tonight, and so, here I am!” He put his hands on his hips and thrust out his chest heroically.

Bill Hawks let out a roaring laugh from his position on the other couch. “No, _I_ had an inkling something would happen here tonight, you ass. That’s why I hired you! And now look at how things have turned out— I may as well have hired a goddamned clown!”

His ego destroyed, the detective seemed to softly deflate where he stood. Mrs. Hawks, meanwhile, buried her face into her husband’s shoulder. “Oh god," she cried, "Someone help us out of this nightmare!”

“Get off me, woman! Your blubbering is the last thing I need right now.” Mr. Hawks stood up and pushed past the crumpled form of Detective Hennessy. Before reaching the door, he turned around. “I’m going to go get myself a drink. You’d better get this figured out tonight, or you’re gonna wish you’d chosen another profession!” And with that, he exited and flung the door shut behind him.

Mrs. Hawks slumped down onto the couch with a dazed look on her face and her eyes full of tears. Detective Hennessy’s coarse expression softened and he stepped closer. He patted the top of her head lightly. “There, there, Missus, don’t you worry. I’ll get this figured out. I’ve got forensics and a medical team of examiners on the way right now, and once they get here, they’ll gather all the needed evidence, dust for fingerprints, and everything.” Suddenly, he turned back toward Emmy and Layton. _“And you two will be thrown into jail!”_

Mrs. Hawks abruptly swiped Detective Hennessy’s hand away. “You daft monkey, don’t you know anything!? That’s Hershel Layton! The man who saved all of London just months ago!”

The detective stammered. “H-he is?”

“Yes! Do you really think he’d rescue us all, only to turn around and murder some moron at a party?”

Detective Hennessy stepped back. With his brows knitted together, he turned to look the Professor up and down. Silence descended upon the little room, broken only by an occasional sob from the woman on the couch. Finally, he mumbled (with every measure of dejection laden deeply in his somber voice), “A good detective always explores every option, you know. I’m sure you understand.”

The Professor nodded.

“Anyways, just because you have a fan club doesn’t clear you of all suspicion.”

“Naturally.”

After a moment spent examining the carpet, the detective eventually said, “So, riddle me this: everyone who was indoors when the murder happened was sent to the parlor room for questioning. And yet, you two were fooling around upstairs. What were you doing there? How’d you get there?”

Emmy quickly stepped in. “Listen, what’s important is that we figure out who the murderer is and get this whole case solved.” Emmy punched her hand with a fist and smiled. The Professor inwardly thanked her for her quick diversionary skills. "So, what have you got so far?"

Detective Hennessy shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to pace the room. A thin sheen of sweat was visible even from their position across the room. He turned to face them, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and continued pacing. After his second failed attempt at starting dialogue, the Professor tentatively spoke up.

“I know we can be of use to you, Detective. My friend and I have worked on a number of cases, some at the request of Scotland Yard herself. Let us help you.” 

The detective made a sound that was part choking and part laughter. “I don’t need your help! If you two didn't kill him, then the bloke must’ve jumped from the balcony on the second floor. He was going through a divorce, after all, and was probably about to get cleaned out by his ex!” He threw his hands up as though to say ‘ta-da!’ 

Professor Layton rubbed his chin. “I’m sorry Detective, but I doubt that’s true.”

Before anyone could comment further, a loud crack ripped through the silence followed by a rolling boom of thunder. At that moment, the lights went out, and the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain began to tap on the windows. Unbeknownst to anyone else under the abrupt cover of darkness, Mrs. Hawks curled up into a ball on the couch, the detective rubbed his already-aching temples with his forefingers, and Emmy and the Professor instinctively scooted closer together. Their hands bumped and fingers interlocked before either could conjure a single thought on the subject. Had they been able to see each other in the darkness, they would have felt giddy by the other's smiles.

Just then, several people outside screamed. Someone banged the window and shouted: “Let us in!”

“It’s raining!”

“You can’t keep us out here!” 

With a bam, the door to the drawing-room swung open, and the man who had been playing DJ before the commotion started stuck his head into the room. “Uh, sorry to bother you, Detective, but it’s started raining and the power's out.” 

The detective swung to face him. “Tell me something I don’t already know!”

“Well, the people we locked outside want to come in, and Bird’s having some trouble keeping them all from freaking out.”

“Fuck!” The detective stormed across the room, nearly tripping over a coffee table in the darkness. He cursed loudly. At the door, he spun around. “We’re not finished! You two, stay here! And you— DJ— make sure nobody comes in or out of this room!” With a grunt, he slammed the door shut.

In the following silence that ensued after his departure, the soft pitter-patter of rain filled the room, punctuated only by the occasional sniffle from the manor’s proprietary lady. Suddenly finding themselves alone (save for the aforementioned woman face down on the couch on the other side of the room,) Emmy and the Professor each felt nervous excitement settle in. 

"Listen, about earlier," he started. How could he tell her he wanted to spend his entire life with her by his side without scaring her away?

Emmy shook her head and squeezed his hand lightly. "You don't have to say anything," she whispered. As she pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her enormous grin became visible as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. "I think actions speak louder than words, after all."

The Professor smiled. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest. He leaned in toward her. She leaned in too.

“So that’s it, huh?” A cold voice rang out from across the room. “He can't figure out who did it, so he's gonna call it a suicide?” A plush recliner spun around to reveal a woman in an elegant emerald-colored dress. She held a candle in one hand. On her lap sat another woman with long, auburn hair. She appeared to be asleep with her face tucked under the first woman’s chin. “That detective has a lot to learn about deductive reasoning,” she continued. “It’s a shame for all of London that he works for Scotland Yard, honestly.”

Emmy and the Professor, meanwhile, had flown apart as though shocked by electricity, dropping the other's hand in the process. “W-who are you?” the Professor stammered.

“Rena Wellington. Of the Wellington Candle Company. And this—“ she patted the other woman’s head lightly, “—this is my wife, Liliana.”

“Oh,” the Professor said, still trying to tame his beating heart. How long had this woman been here? “My name is—“

“Hershel Layton. Yeah, I know you, don’t look surprised. You’re the one that revealed that ‘Underground London’ deal and brought that crooked scientist and that nasty kid to justice.” She smiled slyly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Oh, I see.” He reached up to tip his hat only to remember that the detective had been holding it when he stormed out. Disheartened, he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

“And you,” the woman continued, “are Emmy. Nice to see you again.”

Emmy swallowed and nodded. 

“So, let's get to it. Mister Layton, you told the detective that Lovelle didn’t commit suicide. Tell me why.” She wore a knowing smirk on her face.

The Professor straightened up in his seat and took a deep breath. This was not how he wanted tonight to go. “Well," he sighed, "I only have a limited number of facts to go on, having just met the man an hour or so before he died, but I do know that he was in the middle of building a home in Barcelona. He was looking forward to moving there after the divorce was settled. Certainly, that doesn’t rule out the possibility of suicide, but it does make it seem unlikely.”

Rena smirked. “Yes, I think you two’ll do.”

The Professor looked up at her. “Come again?”

“Obviously that detective is running around blind as a bat. But you and your assistant there—“ she nodded toward Emmy, “— You two can solve this case. I would join you if I could, but my Lili here had too much to drink and has been completely horrified by the ordeal out there. She needs me here, and we all need you out there.”

Emmy stood up, startling the Professor with her energy. “You’re right, Mrs. Wellington! …But how do we get out there? That DJ has the only door blocked.”

The Professor slowly stood up next to her. “Should we try the window?”

“I have a better idea.” Rena pointed toward the bookshelf behind them. “Pull the red book.”

Emmy and the Professor looked over their shoulders at the bookcase behind them. “Red...?”

Rena shooed them on impatiently. “It’s a secret passage. Don't ask me how I know, just go! Get a move on! You heard the detective— he’s got forensics on the way, and if they’re listening to that idiot, then they’re bound to mess things up and let our criminal go free tonight. The heavy downpour will probably cause some delay, but let’s not count on it!”

With those words, Emmy hurried over toward the shelf and did as instructed. One brightly colored book stood out against the array of grey, weathered tomes, and with a pull, the shelf made a clunking sound and came loose. Emmy pulled it forward, revealing a passageway into another room.

“If— or rather, when— Detective Hennessy comes back to talk to us, tell him that we escaped through the window, will you?” The Professor asked Rena. He unlatched the window and opened it a smidge, just enough to illustrate his fancy. 

“Send him on a wild goose chase?” She smiled. “With pleasure. And while you're here, take this." She held out the lit candle, which the Professor took with gratitude.

Finally, with a silent bid farewell, and with the blessings of the mysterious candle lady, the duo slipped into the next room and pulled the shelf shut behind them.

But their determination to solve the case faltered as soon as they found themselves alone. Squinting in the candlelight, they could see that they had stumbled upon a large, well-stocked, and immaculate kitchen. An empty kitchen. Silent but for the sound of rain against the windows, and nearly as dark as the drawing-room. In fact, excluding the candle held tight in the Professor's hand, the only source of light came from a small, glowing, battery-operated incense burner letting off a faint lavender smell.

Hershel Layton glanced toward his former assistant. Now was his chance to finally tell her how he felt. Tell her about her brilliance, her strength, her beauty. And to confess his undying, unyielding devotion. But when he turned to face her, she was already reaching up to cup his face and pull him in close. Finally, their lips were together again. 

“Hershel Layton, I just can't stop thinking about you," she whispered between kisses. "And I want you. Now.”

”Want me? Oh my--”

She ran her fingers through his hair while her other arm snaked beneath his suit jacket to claim purchase on his backside. Hershel, suddenly face-to-face with Emmy's explicit desire, threw aside doubt and uncertainty to pull her body close to his, as he had dreamed of doing for far too long. As she pushed off his jacket, he led her to the kitchen's expansive island and, after quickly setting down the lit candle, propped her up onto the cool granite countertop. Here, in the soft glow of the candlelight, she looked just as beautiful as ever. 

Right away, her strong legs eagerly wrapped around his waist. His gaze met hers once more, and he leaned in to recapture her mouth. Spurred on by her gasping moans, his fingers traced a line up her sides, over her shoulders, then along her collarbone. He lightly squeezed her soft breasts through the fabric of her dress shirt, his thumbs coming tantalizingly close to her nipples. She moved under his hands, pressing herself into them, seeking the touch she craved. His fingers came together in the space between her breasts, and in one quick motion, he tore open her shirt. 

"Hershel!" she cried. But his hands were already exploring the soft skin over and around her bra, on her sides, and her stomach. The next time she said his name, it was with a pleading moan as his mouth moved over her chest, biting and sucking the tender skin. Her nails raked across the skin on the back of his neck, urging him to continue. He flicked his tongue beneath the fabric of her bra and across her nipple and she quickly sucked in a breath; he watched her close her eyes and tilt back in rapture as he toyed with the sensitive area.

Now, Emmy could feel herself beginning to drown in ecstasy. She needed to make sure Hershel felt this way too, but how? Looking down, she immediately spotted the means to her goal and quickly kicked off her shoes. Shifting her body slightly meant she could trail a bare foot over his thigh where his erection strained against the fabric of his pants. She toed over his length; his deep, guttural moan and reflexive twitch sent a thrilling sensation far into her core. 

"Wow, Hershel," she whispered. 

He could hear a kind of hunger in her voice as she continued her motions over his thigh. Somehow, with a dexterity hitherto unexpected of her, she managed to unzip his pants and continue to stroke him through the subsequent opening. In one fluid motion, she eased his entire throbbing length through the opening. Long, thick, and very hard, it dripped with eagerness to be put to use as her toes resumed their stimulation. 

Her turn: he unbuckled her pants; she lifted herself up on the counter just enough for him to slip her pants and underwear down. Without further hesitation, he opened her knees and kissed over her center, applying a soft but firm pressure. He traced his tongue along the middle, then slipped his tongue between her lips to taste her wetness. She could feel herself losing control already as she listened to him moan her name over and over into her center. Her hands found his hair just as he started to suck her most sensitive area. She arched her back, eliciting a moan from him in response. Suddenly, her body spasmed and she came, shuddering against his mouth as the waves of pleasure passed over her body.

Then, she slipped off the counter and turned around to lean against it, ignoring the wet spot she had left all over the granite. "Hershel, please," she begged. 

At the sight of his former assistant bent over and begging for him to fuck her, Hershel did exactly as any red-blooded gentleman would do. With a hand on either side of her soft hips, he positioned himself against her bare backside to feel along her wet entrance. Encouraged by her soft sighs, he slowly pushed deep inside. Finally, with their bodies flush against each other, each twitch, touch, and stroke felt magnified beyond measure. Here, Hershel paused for a moment to relish the sight of this beautiful woman beneath him in the warm glow of the single candle, then slowly pulled almost completely back out again. 

“Faster,” she panted. “Give it to me.” 

With both hands firmly on her hips, he picked up the pace. Her sighs became gasps as he pounded into her again and again. Soon, he looped one arm around her thigh to press against her clit. She could feel a tingle grow behind her navel as he stroked her inside and out; then, her whole body tensed up as it teetered on the brink of release. She squeezed her eyes shut and all at once her whole body shook once more. Her center fluttered as Hershel’s other hand petted her stomach up and down. At that moment, he pushed himself deep inside of her and paused, and Emmy could feel him throbbing as his warmth collected deep within her core.

Now thoroughly spent, Hershel collapsed against Emmy's back. Even now, it was hard to believe that he had shared such an intimate moment with his old friend. His lover. The mere thought made his heart skip a beat. How did he come upon such luck? He smiled and nuzzled the back of her shoulder. After a minute of catching his breath, Hershel brushed aside Emmy’s hair to better see her flushed, smiling face.

He kissed her cheek softly. "I've been wanting this for such a long time, you know," he confessed. "You're amazing, smart, and talented, and I'm so lucky to have you back in my life, Claire." 

Emmy froze. Who is Claire?


	4. Lost and Found

“Wait, Emmy— where are you going?”

Emmy had straightened up and was already halfway across the room as the Professor spoke, buttoning up her shirt and tugging her suspenders into place. At the sound of his voice, she paused. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then quickly readjusted her gaze so as to avoid eye contact. Warm light from the flickering candle illuminated only sorrow in her eyes.

The Professor took a cautious step toward her. She recoiled just a bit, and he stopped. Had he hurt her? Rushed things? Overstepped his boundaries? Quickly his mind raced over the events of the evening. The whole experience had felt so perfect to him, so wonderful, so right. But perhaps in his eagerness and enthusiasm, he had been too rough with her.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could manage a single word, she cut him off: “Let’s just get back to the case, Professor.”

Her words nearly knocked the wind out of him. Had they not agreed on a relationship? A friendship? A first-name basis, at the very least? Where once were butterflies, he now felt daggers twisting into his stomach.

Emmy gave him one last glance before pushing the kitchen door open a crack. She cautiously peered about, then exited, leaving him standing in the kitchen. Alone.

* * *

Emmy bit her lip and struggled to fight back tears. How could she have let herself get so carried away? She should have known it was too good to be true. And now it seems Hershel had used her. For sex? For revenge on this 'Claire?' Whatever case, she wanted to go home right now and be away from this entire ordeal, but that wouldn’t be easy with the mansion under the control of Hennessy, Bird, and the DJ.

The front door was not an option. The gate outside was certainly locked tight by now. She paused to look around the spacious room with her arms folded tightly around her chest. As she considered climbing the fence, thunder boomed, shaking the big house and causing the cups and platters on the nearby table to clink together. No, it’d be better to wait out the storm, at least for a while. Instead, she quickly darted across the dark living area and down a hallway toward the back of the mansion. If she could find another spare bedroom to hide in, somewhere far from the action, then she might just be able to pull herself together enough to make it through the night.

Just then, she spotted a small, flickering light at the other end of the hall. _Shit_ , she thought to herself, _someone’s coming!_ She did not want to be found like this! Quickly she ducked into a nearby bathroom and softly closed the door behind her. With her ear pressed against the wood, she could hear the sounds of heeled shoes lightly tapping against the tile past the bathroom. Emmy listened with bated breath until the footsteps faded completely.

With a sigh, she turned around and pressed her back against the door. She supposed this would be as good a place as any to decompress and get a handle on tonight’s events. She pressed her palms against her eyes and allowed herself to slide down. Sitting cross-legged on the cold tile, she suddenly heard a rustle from behind the shower curtain.

“W-who’s there?” she gasped.

“Emmy? Is that you?” A familiar face peered out from behind the curtain.

“Colin!”

* * *

The Professor could still feel her in his arms, smell her on his clothes, taste her on his lips. And yet, he stood alone in the empty kitchen with only the fond memories to keep him company. He sighed and looked down at his hands. Whatever he had done, he had messed up a good thing very, very badly. He needed to talk to Emmy and figure out how to make things right.

He picked up the candle and made his way to the door. He peeked out into the combination living and dining area. On this end of the spacious room stood an elegant mahogany dining table still covered in hors d’oeuvres from the party. Deviled eggs, pickled roots, fancy cheeses, tiny slices of toast, and little cocktails were arranged in rows on little platters, plates, and pedestals. The Professor briefly considered downing some liquid courage when the door to the drawing-room burst open.

 _“Goddammit!”_ a man shouted. The Professor ducked down beneath the table just as Detective Hennessy barreled out and across the living area toward the sliding glass doors. “Why would they go back outside? In _this_ weather!?” He cupped his hands around either side of his face and pressed them against the glass to look around the spacious yard.

The Professor had nearly forgotten about his little tactic to mislead the good detective off his and Emmy’s trail. He’d also forgotten about his promise to Rena Wellington, of the Wellington Candle Co., to find Nathaniel Lovelle’s murderer. With guilt rising in his gut, he looked down at the little candle still lit in his hand. He held it close, covering the light with his other hand, and pictured Emmy’s lovely visage in its warm glow.

Finally, with a mixture of expletives, Detective Hennessy flung open the glass door. Hesitating for only a moment, he finally charged out into the rain, slamming the door behind him.

The Professor stood. His mind was made up. He’d solve this mystery and win back his dear Emmy. He snatched a shot off the table and gulped it down. After two more, he felt ready.

Now he just needed to do two things: find Emmy, and find the killer.

* * *

“Colin!” Emmy hugged her coworker. He squeezed her back.

“Boy, you sure had me scared there for a second,” Colin said with a smile. “I thought you were the po-po ready to drag me back into that stuffy parlor room!”

“Parlor room?”

Colin held her at arm's length, the better to see her. Of course, like the rest of the house, the bathroom was dark, save for the small amount of light coming in through the window. He laughed. “You mean to say you haven’t been caught yet?”

“No, no, Hershel and I—“ She stopped short.

Colin seemed not to notice. “Well, you’re lucky. Me and the rest who were in here when the murder happened, we were all shepherded into this side room off the main living room and interrogated like we were all suspects.”

“Oh. Sounds awful.”

“Well, at least I got some juicy pictures. Stuff that’ll sell real good.” He patted the camera on the lanyard around his neck.

Emmy frowned. “Speaking of which, do you know if they’ve made any progress in finding the killer?”

Colin chuckled. “Doesn’t seem like it. I snuck out to try to do some sleuthing on my own, but I haven’t made much progress.” His face suddenly lit up. “Hey, do you want to join me? I bet if we put our heads together, we could figure out who the killer is for sure!”

Emmy bit her lip as her mind darted to Hershel. His smile, his conviction that they could solve this mystery together. But then his voice came to the forefront of her mind, and the name _‘Claire.’_

“Yeah, sure,” Emmy said. “Let’s team up.”

“Excellent!” Colin pumped his fist.

* * *

Now, where should he start? The Professor rubbed his chin as he surveyed the layout of the room. From here, with his back to the kitchen, he could see the entrance to the drawing-room, where the Wellingtons sat waiting, the front doors, a little hallway leading to the rear of the estate, the sliding glass door through which Detective Hennessy had just exited, and another room just behind the prone body of the victim: Nathaniel Lovelle. Up until now, the Professor had not taken a good look at the man since he was alive and speaking to him about his travels to Barcelona. He supposed that he should take this opportunity to inspect his corpse now that he had Hennessy on a wild goose chase in the pouring rain.

With a final glance around him, the Professor crossed the room and knelt down next to the body. There, Nathaniel Lovelle lay on his stomach with his arms and legs splayed out beneath him. The Professor placed a finger on his neck below his jaw. No pulse.

Oddly enough, there was nary a drop of blood on Lovelle’s entire body. _Well, that rules out a stabbing or shooting,_ the Professor thought to himself grimly. But then, how did he die? The Professor looked up at the second-floor balcony. Did he fall?

He suddenly felt his face grow hot. That balcony, that’s where he had discovered Emmy with her hand in her pocket, rubbing herself after their encounter in the closet. Where he and she shared their first kiss….

 _Focus, old boy,_ the Professor thought to himself. _There's work to be done._ He pictured what Emmy's face would look like, glowing with pride, as he revealed the facts of the murder to everyone

With a smile, he turned back to the body before him. No broken bones appeared immediately evident. Rigor mortis had not even set in yet. In fact, if the Professor hadn’t known better, he might have thought Nathaniel Lovelle had simply passed out on the floor. However, upon closer inspection, he could see bruising on the man’s hands. Indicative of a fall, perhaps, if he had instinctively reached out to brace himself before impact. Just then, the Professor noticed something curious. On the palm of one hand, he spied some red marks. Blisters.

_Now, what could have caused that?_

The blisters were small, raised, and inflamed. The Professor held the candle closer, mentally cursing the darkness. It could just be a trick of the light, but it appeared as though the man bore tiny red marks on his face, as well. They were so small that he probably would not have noticed had he not been looking for them. The Professor drew a pen from his breast pocket and placed it under the man’s chin, slowly turning his head.

The Professor drew a breath. The other side of Lovelle's face was hardly recognizable for all the redness and swelling. Nathaniel Lovelle, what have you gotten yourself into?

Obviously, his next move should be to retrace the man's steps. If he could figure out the origin of the blisters, he might then solve this mystery. But, perhaps he had stood up too quickly, but the Professor had to grip the wall to steady himself. The room spun. He closed his eyes to rub them and cursed his poor choice in refreshments.

 _This is why you don’t drink, Hershel,_ he chastised himself.

When he opened his eyes again, he nearly jumped. Standing before him, looking curiously up at him with wide, green eyes, was none other than Miss Helena Cravitz-Macintyre, heiress to the Macintyre fortune.

Like a slithering serpent eyeing her next meal, she approached, her lips curling upward into a wicked smile. “So, Professor Hershel Layton, we meet again.” Her voice was low. “What have you been up to tonight?”

 _Where on Earth had she come from?_ “I’m, um—“

She pressed a finger to his lips. “Bird and the DJ have captured everyone and forced them into that room right there.” She glanced pointedly toward the door beside them. “In the spirit of not getting caught ourselves, let’s find somewhere more private to finish this conversation in, hm?”

Without waiting for a reply, she took the Professor’s hand in hers and led him down the hall, up the stairs, and toward a spare bedroom.

* * *

Emmy studied the form of her journalistic college as they slowly tip-toed through the hallway. He was pretty well built, with broad shoulders and dark hair. Before rounding the corner, he looked at her over his shoulder and winked.

“Here we are,” he said.

“Which is…?”

“The maid’s room; the room directly on the other side of the parlor where all the others are being questioned by those idiots. If we listen closely, we might catch some information we can use to capture the culprit. Or, at the very least, get some juicy gossip for the tabloids."

Colin eagerly sat on the floor and pressed his ear against the wall. Emmy bit her lip as she slowly sat down beside him. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up as he pulled out his pad and began scribbling notes on it. Finally, she pressed her ear against the wall and listened.

_"You know, I had Maddie make that sauce the other day, that orange-honey..."_

_"I got it in a small. I've never been crazy about Marcus Malanda, but his coats are always..."_

_"No, it just means you need to use more pesticides..."_

_"What happened to all of those organic spices you all got...?_ " 

She sighed and closed her eyes. This was getting them nowhere. She wasn't interested in tabloid material. She knew that from day one. From the moment she first laid eyes on Professor Hershel Layton, she knew she wanted to solve _real_ mysteries, expose _real_ crime and corruption. Not make reports about which celebrities and rich people enjoy what clothing styles. She opened her eyes again. Colin was still writing on his notepad fervently.

"Hey, Colin?" Emmy began.

He paused and looked up.

She wasn't sure where to begin. "W-well, I know you keep up with a lot of local celebrities and the like. ...What do you know about Hershel Layton? And a person named 'Claire?'"

His eyebrows rose. He looked thoughtful, but with his ear still pressed against the wall, he daren't make a sound. Instead, he pulled another notebook out of his back pocket and handed it to her. "Toward the back," he whispered.

But even as Colin hastily re-crushed his ear against the wall, Emmy became distracted by a different sound. A voice. A familiar voice echoing softly through the vent near the floor at the base of the armoire at the other end of the room. With a silent "thanks," Emmy got on all fours and crawled over to the vent with Colin's notebook in hand. Here, seated beside the little opening in the floor, she listened carefully as she flipped through the pages.

 _“This is not how things were supposed to go!”_ a gruff voice snarled. It was Bill Hawks, the mayor of London and owner of the mansion they were all currently occupying. She heard a bang, like a fist hitting a solid surface, and then he continued: “Where the hell is it?”

“Shit, it could be anywhere by now. Honestly, I think you've got bigger problems on your plate, though.” As she listened, Emmy frowned. That voice sounded familiar, too. Who could it be?

Mr. Hawks growled under his breath. “Someone is going to have to take responsibility for this failure, and it isn’t going to be me.”

“Don’t worry,” the familiar voice went on, “They don’t have anything. No evidence, no leads, nothing.”

“Not good enough. If we can't find the bottle, that means someone out there has it, and we have to assume that they know its importance. We must find them before they squeal." Hawks paused, pacing the room. His footfalls echoed through the vent. "You know, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone here."

All was quiet for a moment. Finally, the voice squeaked: "What do you mean?"

"I mean, to get Hennessy and his goons out of here and off our backs, we must give them what they want: a culprit.”

Emmy felt her stomach grow cold. She had to find Hershel, and find him fast.

* * *

With all the grace of a rabid gorilla on fire, Detective Hennessy barreled back into the living room and roared, _"Damn you all!"_ The force of his monstrous voice could be felt all over the mansion, including the upstairs bedroom the Professor currently found himself sharing with a one Ms. Helena Cravitz-Macintyre.

"What was that?" The Professor tried to sit up, but the woman in the red dress put a hand on each shoulder and pushed him back down onto the bed. Before he knew it, she had him straddled. Trapped. He tried to object, but his vision swam each time he tried to open his eyes. 

"Probably just the storm. Don't worry, Hershel. Now back to our previous conversation--"

The Professor turned away from her and sighed. "It's true."

"Surely you jest. Not the photographer girl?" she giggled.

"Yes," the Professor confessed in futility. "I'm in love with her. Madly so."

Slowly, she ground her hips against his. She clicked her tongue. "That's so sweet. What's her name? Ashley? Emily?"

"Emmy."

She leaned over and whispered into his ear: "And all this time, I thought you were just trying to play hard-to-get."

"You misunderstand-- I've known her for years. She was my assistant back in the day, and I've loved her for a long time. It just wasn't until tonight that I actually... acted on it."

"You don't have to explain things to me, baby. I'm a pretty good sleuth when it comes to matters of love and desire, so let me guess: you messed things up somehow."

The Professor sighed. "I just don't know what I would do without her. I don't know what I would do without Claire in my life."

Helena frowned and sat up. "...I thought you said her name was Emmy."

The Professor quickly opened his eyes and turned to face her. Suddenly all the mysteries surrounding his new love clicked into place with mortifyingly sound clarity. "Oh my-- I have to go."

With a smirk, Helena finally scooted off the prone form of Professor Layton. She sighed. "Fine, you stubborn mule." She made a shooing motion. "Go and find her, baby. Go, find your Emmy."

With her finally off of him, he bolted off of the bed and beelined for the door. "Thank you, Helena," he said. "You've been a marvelous help."

He swung the door open and nearly collided straight into the massive, heaving, completely drenched form of Detective Hennessy. With wild eyes and grinding teeth, he reached out and snatched the Professor's arm.

"There you are! You're coming with me!" he shouted.

His other hand gripped the arm of none other than Emmy Altava. She wore a sheepish grin.

"Hello again, Hershel."


End file.
